This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.

There are no hierarchies, no infinite, no such many as mass, there are only/ eyes in all heads,/ to be looked out of.

Were all moving, moving, moving. Isnt it nice?

Forgive me if I sleep until I wake up.

A poem is energy transferred from where the poet got it (he will have some several causations), by way of the poem itself to, all the way over to, the reader.

You don't help people in your poems. I've been trying to help people all my life - that's my trouble

Whatever you have to say, leave The roots on, let them Dangle And the dirt Just to make clear Where they come from.